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The Tale of Fain's Lost Trollocs

Jul 14, 2011

The guys of tWoTCast have asked what ever happened to the remaining trollocs of Padan Fain’s after he left the two rivers.  In Lord of Chaos, Chapter 28, Letters, we see the final reference to Fain’s few remaining trollocs, outside of Caemlyn.  We trollocs sent Robert Jordan an account of what happened to them thereafter, to be included at the end of the chapter, but he rejected it.  Jerk.  So, for your reading pleasure, here is the final account of those few remaining trollocs.  Poor bastards.


    Letters (contd)

The sun filtered through the oak and leatherleaf above.  As the leaves rustled in the breeze, the light flickered and danced over the dirty, knotted fur of the small band of trollocs hiding in the copse of trees.  The four trollocs sat in a circle, their stench nearly obscured by the sweet aroma of two rivers tabac, which they smoked from a pipe that they passed amongst each other.

Fain had left them, and no one complained.  The guy was kind of a dick.  And weird, really.  Beady little eyes.  Penchant for horrific killings.  The trollocs were fans of murder and mayhem, but Fain had seemed to like his job a bit too much.  They were all in agreement that he was in serious need of a vacation.  A vacation far away from them.

But now Fain was gone, and the trollocs needed to decide what to do next.  They had agreed Brok would be their leader, but such things were fleeting amongst trollocs, and Brok knew it.  He hoped to hold them together long enough to get them out of Andor and back to someplace much more unpleasant and suited to their tastes.  He’d eat one of the others if he had to, but trolloc meat was kind of bland, and reminded him of nights in his childhood when his mom didn’t feel like cooking.  Dinners of cold sibling had sucked.

“I’m hungry.  Let’s go find a village or a homestead and cook us up some human burgers.”  Pete was always impetuous, and Brok hated him.  If he was going to eat any one of the others, it would be Pete, just so he didn’t have to listen to him anymore, but the effort would get on Brok’s nerves.  The fight to kill Pete would be brutal at its easiest.

Brok took a deep breath before responding.  No need to kill Pete yet.  “That wouldn’t be prudent, Pete,” he growled.  So much for staying calm.  “We need to get out of the area quietly, and killing a bunch of folks would raise awareness of our presence like a Tinker orgy.”  Everyone knew Tinkers liked to get freaky.

“Whatever,” said Pete,”you’re just a pussy.  Better to carve our way out of here than sneak around like a bunch of bitches.  God, you’re worse than that Aybara kid with his skank wife.  Waah wahh, what should I do?”  It was a low blow.  Being compared to Lord Perrin’s douche behavior with his wife was nearly the ultimate insult.

Fortunately, Craig spoke up and broke the tension.  “We could get jobs.”

“Jobs,” said Pete.  He stood and began to pace on hoofed feet as he ranted.  “Are you fucking serious, you parrot-faced dipshit?”  When Pete got angry he would always demean their animal heritage, and it worked especially well to unnerve eagle-faced Craig.  “What are we gonna do, walk into town and ply some sort of trade?  ‘No really, goodwife, we don’t care to eat you today.  We’re hoping you’ll take us in and let us bake some motherfucking honeycakes.  Cheerio.’  Not exactly, Craig.  Fuck, you’re a moron.  Fain should have turned you into the dribbling lobotomy victim instead of Hank.”

Across the circle, Hank drooled from his ram’s mouth and farted.  His eyes gazed longingly into space, as if he were watching a few dozen female trollocs, who look just like super hot human women, dance the sa’sara in the Thriller video.

Brok was fed up.  They would get nowhere with Pete, Brok was sure.  Catching Pete off guard, Brok hurled his giant axe at him.  The axe embedded itself in the left of Pete’s chest and shoulder.  Pete flinched but hardly hesitated, grabbing the axe out of his own body with his still-good right hand.  The force of his pull swung the axe wildly out to Pete’s right, where it accidentally lopped off Hank’s head.  Hanks’ body toppled over with one final drawn out wet fart.

Brok and Pete charged at each other, preparing for a life and death struggle for dominance.  Just before impact, Brok felt a tug on his leg and the ground rushed up at him.  The top of his head collided with Pete’s knee and the world shook.  It shook again as Pete’s body collapsed on top of him.  Dazed, Brok slowly turned under Pete’s weight, struggling to face him and continue the fight.  As he did, he realized Pete wasn’t moving, and as his vision cleared, he saw Craig’s pike protruding from Pete’s body where neck met shoulder.

“What…?” asked Brok.

Craig walked slowly to Brok, carrying Hanks’ rusty sword.  He knelt over Brok, looking directly into his eyes.  “I’m sorry, man, but I’m not going back up north.  I’m gonna go get a job.  I make a mean honeycake.”  Before Brok could even think of a response, Craig drove Hanks’ sword through his chest, and over his dying gurgling breaths, Brok heard Craig walking away and already rehearsing his speech, “Ma’am I’m not going to hurt you, I’ve turned to the Light.  Please let me show you how delicious my honeycakes are…”

For years thereafter, in a small village north of Caemlyn, it was well known that Betie Harker’s inn, The Trolloc’s Rest (with a sign depicting a dead trolloc in a grave) had the best honeycakes in the land, made by her reclusive and allegedly deformed cousin (for no one ever laid eyes on him), Craig, who had come to live with her in the days after the Dragon seized power in Andor.


Trolloc Talk is the outlet for a creatively repressed trolloc who would be balefired if the Forsaken caught him engaging in such insolence.  Follow him on Twitter @TrollocTalk